There’s a convention in story-telling: the Absent Father. (It probably has its roots in the old Greek hero tales where the father was a god–mostly Zeus–who must return to the realm of the gods after making a baby with the hot chick that caught his attention on that particular trip to Earth.) the Absent Father is, duh, absent during the formative years of his child’s life. They only show up and take credit for their child when that child has proven themselves worthy. Basically, The Absent Father doesn’t change diapers, clean boo-boos, play “let’s pretend”, give “The Talk” or stand firm in the many faces of adolescence.
I have no idea how it feels to grow up without a dad. I can’t remember a time when, growing up, I was afraid you’d walk out on Mom, Michael and I. Whenever I worried about you not coming home, it was always something external keeping you from us. I never even considered the possibility that you would, of your own free will, walk out on us.
Because I always knew you loved us, even when we were/are annoying the crap out of each other.
Congratulations, Dad, you’re not a Zeus or Poseidon kind of father. Nor are you like Vader or Denethor. You’re more in the vein of Jonathan Kent and for that I am eternally grateful.
I love you. Sorry this is over a week late!